The Recordist
by Sunshine170
Summary: Nostalgia is an interesting term Olivia thinks… its more than remembrance, its longing for a past, a bittersweet sentimentality for a slice of life one lived at some point, of images and conversations and sights and sounds and smells and places.And she's always been the keeper of his memories…the one who didn't forget when the rest of the world did.


Olivia looks at the man next to her as he drives in silence, a pensive look on his face, an indicator of no doubt the million things that must be running through his mind.

He looks older than she remembers…

His face more serious, the stubble less prominent than it used to be, the twinkle in his eyes a little muted, his smile a little less easy.

Not that they had been all that young and fresh faced even when they first met, but there was always an underlying boyish quality to him, a youthful exuberance that she had found endearing.

It wasn't there so much anymore.

Like Peter Pan yanked out of never land and forced to grow up, the boy has become a man.

And what a lot of growing up he has had to do, she can't help thinking.

_He's definitely past due for a haircut,_ she notes, observing the way his curls had grown out, for some bizarre reason almost wanting to tell him that, but she stops herself knowing just how wifely that would sound.

Even if she was in fact his wife, she hasn't felt much like one lately, except in times like these when her marital instincts, born out of years of cohabitation surface in the oddest of situations, like when she had winced when he set his water glass on the kitchen counter the other day without using a coaster or when she had almost chided him in the lab for getting grease on his shirt, irrationally wondering how they would get the stain out, only to remember doing laundry was a luxury they didn't have anymore.

Those are the moments when she's reminded of what has been lost to them, even more than the alien sensation of sleeping in a twin mattress by herself.

She doesn't feel all that married anymore, the way she remembers what being married felt like…

Marriage had meant mortgage payments and dividing up household chores, discussions about money and bills at the beginning of every month, about who would go to the store and who would pick up Etta from daycare, arguments about how much was too much to spend on a stroller.

_No, strollers don't come with a ninja sword Peter…_

Marriage had meant picking out furniture for the nursery and drudging through exhaustion and sleep deprivation in the wee hours of the morning, to care for a minuscule human being they had unwittingly created and brought into the world and then ambled along rather clueless, trying to figure out how to completely not fail at parenthood, to tag team in order to get a very reluctant toddler into a bath, all the while amazed by the knowledge that they had someone so incredible in their life and she was all theirs.

Every adorable, sticky, noisy, giggly bit of her…

Marriage had meant, she got to go home with him at the end of each strange and bizarre day, and curl up together on the couch and watch some mindless television, of dinner table conversations where their daughter would enthusiastically tell them about her day in excruciating detail, of every preschool sing along and playground squabble and finger painting, while they exchanged amused and silent looks of communication, undoubtedly thinking the same thing.

_How did they ever get here?_

For four significant years, they had blissfully played house together. And through it all there were always moments when she would find herself utterly baffled by her existence, with the reality that the conman she had once described as a nomad and a pain in the ass was actually the father of her child and her husband, in that order.

In happier times, he used to tease her that she'd made an honest man out of him, in more ways than one.

She worries if they'll ever get that back.

She's not of course worried about _them_, about whatever word, and there must be _one _she thinks, in some language that exists out there that could describe them as they were, that made them what they were…Peter and Olivia.

Because to her that connection was never contingent on that domestic ideal, wasn't boxed up in a suburban house, or enshrined in a pair of now absent wedding rings. It had a life of its own, it had been and will be always so much bigger than either of them.

Their state of togetherness or estrangement notwithstanding.

They could run to the opposite ends of the earth and they'd still only end up meeting at the center, travelling in a circle that had no beginning or end, in an eternal loop of loss and gain.

One might call it love, she supposes… but it was so much more than that.

Yes there is love, deep, abiding… strong. A foundation that bears the weight of everything else, upon which they shed skins and acquire new ones every day, skins of emotion, of feelings, of functionality.

And god did she love him, more than anything she had ever loved. Fiercely and completely. Above and beyond.

Everyone has their blind spots.

For Peter, that was always Etta. For Olivia that was always Peter.

There's nothing she wouldn't do, no line she wouldn't cross for him.

Her built in warrior, the one that had stolen so much from her including her ability to wholeheartedly embrace her own motherhood had never succeeded in making her feel unsure about him, about her inexplicable need for him in her life, despite the valiant battle it had fought against her feelings for him.

She had never been happier to lose to herself.

She had never been happier to lose herself…to gain memories of a life that came with him, the promise of him, and like that nagging missing piece of a puzzle that finally falls into place, everything had made sense.

She thinks about their conversation today.

Peter was many things, but tactless he was not, and she knows his insistence on her remembering the name of the restaurant was driven by more than a sudden craving for apple pie or a lament for the deteriorated quality of food.

He needs her to remember…everything. It scares him to think she wouldn't and she knows why.

* * *

Nostalgia is an interesting term Olivia thinks… its more than remembrance, its longing for a past, a bittersweet sentimentality for a slice of life one lived at some point, of images and conversations and sights and sounds and smells and places.

Peter's memory may not be as exceptional as hers but it is still pretty darn good. He is after all a genius and then some…

But memory is all about context and 32 years of his life were rendered without context the day he was erased from time.

He has no way of being nostalgic about anything from his past when there was nothing that could invoke that nostalgia. No pictures, no souvenirs, no tokens.

They are but nothing more than stories in his head.

Many times has he run into familiar faces who have walked by him without a second glance because they of course hadn't any clue who he was.

And through it all, he could always count on her, to look at her and have her see him with familiarity, to be able to recognize the things he was talking about.

It wasn't much… because she hadn't known him all their lives to be able to remember everything, just the three years they had spent together from before. But it was his only comfort in a world where he had been forgotten, where he had never existed.

Every conversation they had ever had, every cup of coffee he ever bought her, every shot of whiskey they'd downed together, the cases they worked together.

Every minute and excruciating detail of their relationship, as fraught and difficult and beautiful as it had been…

She has been always been the keeper of his memories…the one who didn't forget when the rest of the world did.

Twelve hours and four minutes…. the duration of their flight from Baghdad to Boston, for most of which Peter had sat from across her, glaring in silence, clearly unhappy to be there.

Except for the two minutes when he had broken into a nice and wide smile to flirt with the stewardess when she brought them coffee.

Hundred and eight white tulips… she had found them in the apartment when they got back from the hospital that day.

_"One for each day we didn't have together."_ he had told her, pointing out to her that she wasn't the only one with a mind for numbers.

A picture of him with his soccer ball…_ Junior Boys City League East Division, Peter Bishop- Left Wing…_ the writing had said.

Seventy six heart beats per minute, she had counted each one of them, her ear against his bare chest listening to the quiet pulse, assuring herself that he was alive and real and with her. That she hadn't imagined seeing him waiting outside her apartment on that winter.

_You know what I hate worst than the cold?_

_What?_

_Not much._

One hundred and ninety was the measure of his acumen, a feeble three digit summation of a mind so keen, a wit so razor sharp

_Genetically, humans and cows are separated by only a couple lines of DNA. So, it's an ethical test subject._

_Where'd you learn that? MIT?_

_No actually, I picked that up reading books. You should try it sometime. It's fun._

Four the number of foreign languages he was fluent in... German, Arabic, Farsi, Cantonese.

He had told her he had loved her in every one of them.

_I didn't know you spoke Cantonese._

_Well get to know me a bit._

"Hey…" His voice is soft, extracting from her thoughts, a smile on his lips.

"Hey." She says back, softly, mindful of the two passengers in the back asleep.

"What's going in that head of yours? I can literally hear the wheels spinning." He asks her.

"Oh nothing I was just thinking about stuff…" She shakes her head and then glances at her watch, and taking in the darkness that had set in. "How long till Boston? We've been driving for hours already."

He shrugs. "These roads are far from ideal and so is our ride so I am thinking… as long as it takes…"

"That's helpful." She rolls her eyes at him.

"Well, don't say I never took you anywhere." He says dryly, grinning at her before turning his attention back to the road

Olivia smiles, shaking her head as she takes in the sight before her, an empty stretch of asphalt flanked by urban ruins on either side.

"The last time you said that to me, you disappeared from the face of the earth for two months." She remarks quietly, recalling that fateful day like it was happening right in front of her eyes.

His gaze softens as he looks at her. "Lucky for you, I am not great at staying disappeared. You always drag me back from wherever...warzones, alternate universe, netherworlds of nonexistence."

She laughs despite herself. "Well a long time ago you found me once, when I had been the one to run away. Consider it returning the favor."

"What do you mean?" He looks puzzled, his expression begging the question.

"Do you remember the first time we met?" She asks him then.

"Of course." He smirks at her. "You don't exactly forget when somebody blackmails you and takes you back to meet your father whom you haven't seen in 17 years."

She laughs, shaking her head at him. "That's not the first time we met."

"I am pretty sure it is." He insists.

"Actually no." She takes in his surprised expression and smiles. "We met once as kids, years ago."

_My name's Peter._

_Mine's Olivia. Don't….be careful_

_I'm not scared. _

_Is this your way of trying to ask me if I'm scared_

_No, of course not. I mean, I figure if you were scared, you'd tell me, right? _

Peter. _I'm scared._

_Don't be_

"We did?" He cocks an eyebrow at her in disbelief. "Are you sure? I would remember something like that I think."

"Actually you wouldn't. Just I like I didn't, till my memories returned to me. It was in Jacksonville at the daycare center."

"We met in Jacksonville?" He asks incredulously. "When was this exactly?"

Olivia tells him about the night; in the field of white tulips when he had come up to her and they had talked, about how he had urged her to go to Walter about her stepfather and how they had made their way back to the daycare center after.

"You told me you have to imagine how you want things to be. And then you can try and change them." She says, remembering their conversation.

"I must have been a smart eight year old." He laughs. "Even if I don't remember it of course. Why would I forget meeting you?" He looks confused, trying to no doubt jog his memories.

"Well don't lose sleep over it. It wasn't a terribly long meeting." She says smiling at the concentrated look on his face. "And it certainly wasn't as interesting as our second first encounter, or third for that matter."

"You mean when I looked at you hopefully like an idiot and you didn't even recognize me." He jokes lightly.

"Yeah that time..." She nods. "Good thing I remembered though." She reaches out and takes his hand in hers, squeezing it gently.

"I remember everything."

He looks surprised, smiling as she clasps his hand a little more firmly, returning the gesture.

"I know you do."


End file.
